I Ordered a Table for Six Read online

  Mrs. Brown held her needle to the light to re-thread it.

  “Loss of background is curiously unbalancing, it’s a shock to the system, it feels like an illness. Of course I haven’t had anything to put up with to touch what’s happened to the Jewish refugees, but when I was bombed out it made me understand them in a way I never had before. I used to feel like you do. They made me furious. I was always wanting to shake them and to tell them to stick their chins up and try harder.”

  Letty grinned. “That’s exactly what I want to do to Gerda. I didn’t know you’d been bombed out.”

  “I was, last autumn.” Mrs. Brown stared at Letty’s scissors as if they were cutting a door open into her past. “My husband’s a solicitor; he was doing nicely before the war, nothing startling but just comfortable. He was on the reserve of officers, and for some weird reason, although he’s forty-three, he was called up the moment the war started. It was odd, because such a lot of younger men who were anxious to go were left hanging about for months.”

  “Have you any children?”

  “No. We thought we couldn’t afford to have them decently so we wouldn’t have them at all. That’s a stupid mistake to make.”

  Letty’s scissors snipped stolidly through the striped material, but inside she felt warm with emotion. That was not a mistake she and Jim were likely to make. They couldn’t marry until the war was over, Jim thought the future too precarious, but when they did she would have a baby all right.

  Mrs. Brown nodded in the direction of Adela’s office.

  “Mrs. Framley’s story is enough to prove how little money matters.”

  Letty would not discuss her employer, but history was everybody’s property.

  “If you go by that, it’s having too much that matters.”

  Mrs. Brown stitched a moment or two in silence.

  “It was when the 1930 slump came that my husband said that as we hadn’t any children, and no matter what you invested money in it disappeared, why shouldn’t I have the sort of home I’d always wanted.” She smiled reminiscently at the memory of herself. “Dear me, those were exciting days. Such a lot of junk we had and I scrapped the lot. The house we took was in Westminster. A cream-coloured house with a scarlet front door and very showy window-boxes. I was particularly proud of a spring show of cinerarias in all the shades of blue and purple. I won’t bore you with it all, but my drawing-room was a dream, soft tones with one violent patch of colour, a weird pinkish saffron picture of a Buddhist priest. It was as if every dream of a home that I had ever had suddenly flowered. My husband used to grumble that I wouldn’t even go out to a theatre, and certainly grudged a holiday because it took me away from the place. Of course I never thought of leaving it when war came, though I had to camp out in two rooms helped by an occasional char, and I stopped on when the raids started. I was in the kitchen when the bomb fell. It was an amazing escape. It was the only bit of the house left standing.”

  Letty was sorry without being able to sympathize. She had never cared much for her home in Eltham, and employers’ houses were merely important because they housed the employer. She had clear views on the suites she would like herself and Jim to acquire on the hire-purchase when they married, but she could not conceive of feeling so devoted to the suites or the house that held them that she would be at all like Gerda if they were taken away from her. Still, it took all sorts to make a world, and if nice Mrs. Brown minded about her house she was grieved for her.

  “And you lost everything? But how lucky you weren’t killed.”

  Mrs. Brown laughed.

  “If I’ve heard that sentence about being lucky one wasn’t killed once since my bomb, I’ve heard it a hundred times. I was away with friends in the country to begin with, for I was shocked, and they kept on saying it, and so did their friends. I didn’t care what they said, or what anybody said or did, I was numb. I simply couldn’t see how I was going to start again.”

  Letty eyed her in shocked amazement.

  “Because you hadn’t a house?”

  Mrs. Brown was amused.

  “No house, no clothes, and very little money. My husband got compassionate leave and came down, and saw to all the business, forms and things you have to sign, and he found the hotel I now live in. It’s concrete and as safe as anything is. I insisted on coming back to London, for I work at a station canteen and they’re short-handed. But months after I lost my home I was just walking about like a mechanical toy. I had no feelings at all.”

  Letty was frankly out of her depth.

  “Just because your house was gone?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. I should think it’s the shock of having nothing. It’s as if you were a plant with deep roots and they’re cut off. It gives you a queer, detached feeling that’s hard to fight.”

  “But you’ve got your husband.”

  “Oh, yes, thank God. And I see him every six months or so. Don’t look so bewildered. I’ve got over it now, but I told you about me because of Mrs. Framley’s Gerda. Those who lose their possessions understand each other however much greater one loss may be than another; it’s the shock of the loss which gives us kinship and understanding.”

  “Like air raids,” Letty suggested. “People who’ve never been in a really bad one, like those people in the country who’ve heard planes passing over all night and occasional bombs dropped, and who think that’s what a raid is. All of us in the bombed towns can’t ever make them understand. They only think they do.”

  Mrs. Brown ran an affectionate eye over Letty.

  “That’s it exactly. As a matter of fact I don’t think material possessions will ever mean much to you, but I’m not really talking about material things. Each of us struggles in our own way to maintain those few things which will keep us sane and prop up our morale in this ghastly war. Take these few things away and the strain is terrific. It oughtn’t to be too much for us, of course, and I hope with most of us it isn’t.”

  “But it is with the refugees.”

  “With many of them, yes. I think quite a lot of the Jewish refugees who came here before the war propped up their courage on the pity of others. The more they were pitied the better they felt. When the war came nobody had time to bother with pitying them. They missed that abominably.”

  Letty stopped cutting and stood quite still, her mind illuminated. Mrs. Brown had described Mrs. Framley. She had not wanted pity exactly, but she had been an admittedly tragic figure before the war and now she was hardly a tragedy at all, there were so many other people so much worse off. She cut the last pieces of material in silence, and in silence laid the pattern on top of them and carried the bundle to the machine. She did not like Mrs. Framley and never would, but, except for her bringing Meggie up for it, she was glad now that she was having this party, and she hoped Mr. Penrose would answer immediately so that she could arrange everything quickly and efficiently. “I’m a selfish beast,” she thought. “I think of me, and Jim, and hate our time interfered with, and I hardly ever think of her as a person, and how unhappy she must be.”

  The women’s knickers cut out, Letty went up to the flat and telephoned Claire Hill. Telephoning Claire was like a relay race. She drove and worked for the W.V.S. Ring up their headquarters and you were put through to the department to which she was attached. There you would be told clearly the number that should find her. In Claire’s case it never did find her. She worked in a concentrated fury of energy, and blamed any borough office which kept her hanging about unemployed for a second. Claire being exceedingly intelligent, it was seldom she had cause to complain, each office to which she was attached harbouring a mass of jobs for her. “Keep that for Mrs. Hill when she comes on Thursday.” “Let that hang over for Mrs. Hill next Friday.”

  Tuesday afternoons were, Letty discovered, supposed to be spent by Claire in Woolwich, but it was no surprise to her when she rang Woolwich to hear that she had g
one with some parcels to Greenwich, or when she rang Greenwich that she had already left there and was taking something to Deptford. She had not, when Letty rang Deptford, yet arrived, but she was expected, and she would not be allowed to leave without first ringing her aunt.

  As Letty turned from the telephone it rang. It was the American secretary of Gardiner Penrose. Mr. Penrose would be delighted to dine on Friday. He would surely have rung Mrs. Framley personally, but he was out visiting a rest centre. There was just one little difficulty; on the Friday night Mr. Penrose would be having a young friend visiting. Would it be possible for Mrs. Framley to include one extra in her party?

  Letty asked, in a voice meant to exclude any suggestion of beds, whether the young friend was a female. Evidently she did not succeed, for the secretary’s voice was pained. Naturally it was a man. A young British airman, the son of one of Mr. Penrose’s oldest friends in this country, with whom he had done very considerable business for many years.

  Letty glanced at her note-book. The party looked like being six. The three women were fixed, but there was no mention of men other than Mr. Penrose. A young airman sounded grand. Mrs. Framley, as far as Letty was aware, knew no young men at all except friends of Paul’s, and none of them would be allowed to meet little Meggie. She took on the we-understand-each-other voice she reserved for confidential arrangements with other secretaries.

  “I think I can say it will be all right. You can take it they’re both expected unless you hear to the contrary. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Framley about it right away. What’s the airman’s name?”

  “Bishop. Andrew Bishop.”

  Letty wrote the name on her pad.

  “Right. Unless you hear to the contrary, I should say they’d meet here for cocktails before going to the restaurant. You’d better tell Mr. Penrose to be here with Mr. Bishop at 7.30. Can I get you at any time if there’s an alteration?”

  “Just ring Mr. Penrose’s suite and ask for his secretary; if I’m out any place I shall have told the clerk in the office and she’ll take a message.”

  Letty put down the receiver with the comfortable feeling that she was dealing with someone who dreaded hitches as much as she did. The telephone bell rang again before she was half-way down the stairs. It was Claire. She evidently felt it a nuisance to be expected to ring her aunt.

  “Hallo, is that you, Letty? The Aunt wants me.”

  “It’s a message from her. I know you don’t like being rung up when you’re working, but I did want to catch you as soon as possible. There’s to be a little party on Friday night for Mr. Penrose.”

  “Goodness, is there really a Mr. Penrose? I thought he was an invention of the Aunt’s to explain why she must run her own show.”

  “Now you never did think that, Mrs. Hill. His wife was at school with Mrs. Framley. The party is at La Porte Verte. It will make a nice change.”

  “No party of the Aunt’s could make a nice anything, and well you know it. Anyway, I can’t come. I’m probably going out shelter-feeding on one of our mobiles.”

  “Couldn’t you change with someone? It’s weeks since you had a night off.”

  Claire’s voice softened.

  “Silly old Letty. How’d you know? It’s weeks since you’ve seen me. Who’s coming to the party beside the Aunt and Mr. Penrose?”

  “A young airman friend of Mr. Penrose’s, called Andrew Bishop, and Meggie. I don’t know who else.”

  “Meggie! What on earth’s she coming up for?”

  Letty would argue with Mrs. Framley, but she would not discuss her behaviour even with Claire.

  “It’s just a little break for her, and Mrs. Framley wants Mr. Penrose to see her, as Mrs. Penrose knew her as a child and will want to know how she’s getting on.”

  “I don’t want to go; explain to the Aunt about the canteen and thank her prettily.”

  Letty gripped the receiver as she would have liked to have gripped and held Claire.

  “Couldn’t you try to manage it? I did see you last week. You drove by me in Piccadilly. You’re getting thinner.”

  “That’s dear Lord Woolton.”

  “Now you know that’s not true, Mrs. Hill; there’s plenty of good food about for those who take trouble. You’re working too hard and not having enough relaxation.”

  “The party won’t be relaxation; no party of the Aunt’s could be.”

  Letty had a brainwave. “It’s Meggie’s first party. It would be nice if you were there to keep an eye on her. Mrs. Framley’s sure to be busy.”

  “It’s idiotic bringing her up. Still, if she’s coming I might make an effort, but I won’t promise. I dare say I can’t get off the canteen.”

  Letty, disregarding the cries of the “Comforts for the Bombed” workers, went to Adela.

  “Mr. Penrose would be delighted to manage Friday. He couldn’t ring you himself, as he’s out visiting a rest centre. There’s just one difficulty: he’s got a young airman friend staying with him that night, someone called Bishop. Mr. Andrew Bishop. I said I didn’t know in the least who you were proposing to invite, but I told the secretary I would ring him back.”

  “How tiresome.”

  “His father is an old friend of Mr. Penrose’s; they do business together.”

  Adela’s face, which had been annoyed, suddenly cleared.

  “Of course. They’re jute. Very rich people. I remember Mrs. Penrose telling me about them. That’ll be delightful. Ring the secretary at once and say I shall be delighted to have Mr. Bishop.”

  “Looks like an old spider,” thought Letty. “I can see her thinking he’ll do for Meggie.” Out loud she said:

  “Shall they meet you here or at La Porte Verte?”

  “Here for a cocktail. About 7.30, not later, and ring La Porte Verte and order a table for six. Have you got on to my niece?”

  “Yes. She thanks you very much, and says if she can get out of serving on a mobile canteen that night she’ll love to come, but she’s not certain.”

  Adela frowned.

  “How tiresome she is. Tell her she must say yes or no. I shan’t be able to find a substitute at the last moment.”

  Letty scribbled on her pad. It was a meaningless scrawl, for she had no intention of ringing Claire.

  “Am I to write or telephone another man?”

  Adela turned her head away from Letty and flicked over the pages of her address book.

  “We’ll have to try several, I expect.”

  “If Mrs. Hill can’t come, you won’t need the extra man,” Letty suggested.

  To her amazement the remark enraged Adela.

  “If Mrs. Hill lets me down at the last minute and I can’t get any one else, you’ll have to come.”

  “Gosh!” Letty raised startled eyes, while her mind raked through her wardrobe. She had the old blue dinner dress, but she had worn it, whenever she had been ordered to eat dinner with Mrs. Framley, since the war started. It was hardly, even in war-time, up to the standard of La Porte Verte. “I haven’t anything to wear.”

  Mrs. Framley cast an eye over her own clothes. There was that old black thing which she had never liked.

  “There’s my black with the silver on the sleeves. It’s a beautiful dress. See Gerda about it. She can alter it for you. I don’t anticipate your needing it, but it’s as well to be prepared. As for the man, you had better ring Mr. Hinch. You’ll get him at the Ministry of Information, or at his club; he’s living there now. He’s very dull, but reliable. Then if he fails try Mr. Earl. He’s still in the same flat.”

  Letty went back to the workroom. The knickers were, as she had anticipated, causing a fuss. She soothed the workers, but her mind was not on them. She did like to know where she was, and plainly she did not know at all where she was with this party. Why was she to telephone Mr. Hinch and Mr. Earl? Mr. Earl played bridge in all his spare momen
ts, and never dined with any one unless there was to be bridge after the meal. Mr. Hinch was a most unlikely starter; he had probably never been inside La Porte Verte and never meant to be. Mrs. Framley knew these things. Why, then, was she insisting on a party of six? She must be very determined to be six, if she would even put up with herself if Claire failed. Besides, her tone had changed about Claire. It had been, “I shall ask Mrs. Hill: she won’t come, but I’d like her to have the invitation.” No talk then of a substitute. It was all very odd. On the face of it, four would be so much better: Mr. Penrose to talk to Mrs. Framley, and Meggie to dance with Andrew Bishop. Somebody had cropped up since the party was thought of, someone Mrs. Framley wanted to invite, but wanted to have the excuse that she was driven to invite at the last moment. Who on earth would that be? The answer to that would almost certainly be somebody unsuitable for Meggie, and that had the smell of a friend of Paul’s.

  The workrooms were closing for the night. Letty received half-finished work and labelled it, and where something was almost finished, folded it over one of the pairs of striped knickers. She smiled and said good-night, and told the workers that Mr. Penrose was in London; but it was mechanical work for her lips and hands; her mind was on the party, and in her subconscious a voice was crying: “I don’t like it. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about this party that’s all wrong. I wish it was over.”

  The comforts packed away for the night and covered in sheets, Letty telephoned to Mr. Hinch and Mr. Earl. She caught Mr. Hinch at his Ministry. He had a staccato high-pitched voice, and on hearing what Letty wanted it grew shrill with agitation. It was too kind of Mrs. Framley, but, really, no. He was not a dancing man, not even in peace-time. Besides, he was so busy that he had to make a rule to be in bed by ten, after a very light meal and a glass of milk. It was most kind, but out of the question. Letty made a face as she put down the receiver. When alone she cheered herself up with such childish habits. Mr. Earl was out. An old voice, presumably of his valet, said that he was expected home to dine. Letty did not leave a message, but said she would ring again. She then telephoned to La Porte Verte. There was not much booking of tables in restaurants in these days. The manager took the order himself. Yes, a table for six. At the end of the dancing-floor, facing the stage, was the best place to see the cabaret. The centre table, then, should be booked.